


He in His Madness Prays for Storms

by skeleton_twins, thekeyholder



Series: The Storm [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Jim and his amazing palm reading skills, M/M, UST, an intellectual: trapped in a fucking manor, so much UST, the Van Dahl robe of seduction, these boys just need to fuck it out, they are too stubborn for their own good, weather references EVERYWHERE, you: trapped in an elevator me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-19 02:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11888271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_twins/pseuds/skeleton_twins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: Just like the storm over Gotham, something has been simmering between Jim Gordon and Oswald Cobblepot, however, under the anger, there are many delicate feelings. Maybe they can make up, after all.





	He in His Madness Prays for Storms

**Author's Note:**

> Here's our entry for the GobblepotSummer2017 Fest. We hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to Nekomata58919 for the beta!!!
> 
> Title from quote here: butterfliesandresistance.tumblr.com/post/164022693861/he-in-his-madness-prays-for-storms-and-dreams

 

Jim Gordon is tapping his pen against the desk, trying to concentrate on the file lying in front of him. The pill he took for his headache just started making its effect, so he leans against his seat and hopes that the throbbing pain will ease off in a few minutes. Maybe he should have gone and had lunch with Harvey… but he wasn’t really in the mood for it.

 

The truth is that Jim’s been brooding for the past week, always stressed about one case or another, some clue always missing so he couldn’t solve them. Frustration simmered under his skin and he approached everything with tension, ready to explode at the smallest inconvenience.

 

Then there was also the heatwave that has swept through the city, bringing hot temperatures and robbing the people of any kind of relief. There is no air and Jim is suffocating, slipping the tip of his index finger under his collar, trying to make it feel less constricting. At least the radio forecast announced heavy storms in the afternoon, and Jim is peering full of hope at the windows, the overcast sky looking very promising.

 

“Hey, Jimbo, come in my office for a sec,” Harvey tells him as he passes by with a paper bag smelling like something delicious from the corner pastry shop.

 

With a sigh, Jim gets up and drags himself into the office. Harvey is sitting with his legs on the desk, devouring something very gooey while Jim’s watching powdered sugar fall on his shirt.

 

“I have some errand for you. Nothing big and after you’re done, you can go home and relax. Get drunk and sleep in this weekend, you deserve it,” Harvey says while chewing.

 

“What’s this errand about?”

 

Harvey grabs some papers from his top drawer, smearing a bit of sugar on them in the process. “Oops.” He blows away the crumbs, handing them to Jim. “Please deliver and have these signed by our dear mayor.”

 

Jim can’t help the grimace he makes. “Yeah, I’d rather pass.”

 

“I feel you, Jim, but this is not exactly a request.”

 

“What does it always have to be me?!” Jim exclaims so suddenly that Harvey stops eating, looking at him curiously.

 

Redness creeps upward, spreading from Jim's neck, invading his cheeks, his face burns as the silence drags on. Harvey's quietly observing him which makes Jim fidget uneasily, not accustomed to Harvey's unwavering scrutiny.

  
  
"Alright..." Harvey finally speaks after a while. He places both his dessert and the papers onto his desk, shaking the powder that clings to his fingertips. "I can just get Alvarez on it."

  
  
"No. Wait." Jim sighs, feeling guilty at his outburst. Jim knows that he shouldn't take his bad mood out on him. Harvey didn't deserve it. His headache starts to return, a dull ache lingering, curling up like a fist pressing against the base of his head.

  
  
His fingers twitch as he grabs the papers from the desk, fighting the urge to toss the papers in the garbage and dig his knuckles into his eyes.

  
  
"I'll do it." Reluctantly the words escape him, slipping through gritted teeth.

  
  
"Thanks, Jim." Harvey nods at him, before resuming his snack. Jim watches, slightly amused at the food crumbs catching and getting trapped in Harvey's beard. 

  
"I know you don't like the guy. Hell, neither do I, but Penguin's in office now, which means we have to play nice."

  
  
"Yeah, yeah." Jim’s heard this speech before.

  
  
"Try to stay on his good side." Harvey's voice is muffled as he chews. "That little snitch could pull some serious strings and have me kicked off from being acting captain and out on the street jobless just like that." Harvey snaps his fingers to illustrate his point.

  
Harvey leans back in his chair. "I'm a bit surprised he hasn't already. Must have forgotten about me."

  
  
"I can remind him if you like?" Jim offers which earns him a look from Harvey.

  
  
"Funny."

  
  
"I have my moments." Jim shrugs.

  
  
"You know, I was a bit skeptical." Harvey examines his pastry, looking at it from all angles. "Really thought Penguin was gonna make a mess out of things as mayor, but I guess I was wrong."

  
  
Jim scoffs which catches Harvey's attention.

  
  
"What?" 

  
"It's ridiculous. Us electing a known criminal to run for mayor."

  
  
"No different than Aubrey James."

  
  
"Except Aubrey James hasn't murdered anyone."

  
  
"That we know of." Harvey points out. "You're telling me you voted for James? I know how much you hate the guy. More than Penguin. You were always willing to work with him a lot more than you were with Aubrey."

  
  
Jim didn't vote for Aubrey James, even though the precinct had backed him. "That's not the point."

  
  
Harvey gives him another look, not convinced. "Besides, when has Gotham ever had someone in office that wasn't a little corrupt? I thought you'd be fawning all over Penguin after that new law he passed."

  
  
James bristles at that. Sure, Oswald's new legislation forces the GCPD to be held more accountable for their arrests, to assist in decreasing the high amount of false imprisonments that occur. Regardless of the law's positive impacts, Jim still couldn't shake the idea that Oswald's stint in Arkham was the reason behind this new bill. His chest aches at the reminder.

  
  
"I don't see the benefits," Jim lies. "Just another way for Cobblepot to have more control over the GCPD.”

 

Harvey’s eyebrows shoot up comically, his face becoming a mask of incredulity. “Really, Jim. I think you’re not looking at it objectively. Is there a hmm, possibility,” he’s gesticulating wildly, “that you are upset about something else?”

 

It is like someone has poured a bucket of ice cold water over Jim; every muscle in his body contracts painfully as he tries not to think about that thing. “No,” he lies again, but it’s obvious that Harvey doesn’t believe him.

 

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” he asks, eyes boring into Jim’s.

 

“Absolutely sure,” Jim replies, just as a flash of lightning illuminates the office.

 

Harvey looks away in surprise, then pushes the papers closer to Jim. “Now go, I don’t want the storm to catch you.”

 

Jim grabs the documents and nods to Harvey, happy to leave the stifling building. However, the air is only slightly better outside, the wind that passes through blowing sticky hotness in the detective’s face. Jim gets into his car, cursing until the engine finally starts.

 

The traffic is heavier than usually and Jim’s patience is wearing very thin. He honks at every slow car, but still gets stuck at a light for several minutes. His mother would surely wash his mouth with soap if she heard the things Jim is saying under his breath.

 

The clouds overhead are black and threatening, foreshadowing an apocalyptic storm. Jim steps on the gas, determined to beat the weather. He can do it, there are only five minutes to City Hall. However, a few rain drops fall on his windshield and Jim sighs. His prayers are never listened to in this cursed city.

 

He parks in front of City Hall and runs up the stairs, trying to shield the documents as much as possible from the drizzle. If he’s lucky, he’ll just pass the papers to Oswald’s assistant who’ll take them inside and get the mayor to sign them. If Oswald wants to be a jerk, he’ll call Jim in his office and probably toy with him or insult him before signing the papers.

 

What Jim doesn’t expect is that Oswald has already left.

 

“What?!” he exclaims, pummeling a wall until Oswald’s smug portrait rattles on it.

 

The assistant looks at Jim as if he were dirt under her shoes. “The mayor left an hour ago, he’s been overworking all week.”

 

“Sure he has,” Jim grumbles and leaves without even saying goodbye, not caring anymore about the papers getting wet.

 

Jim only hesitates one moment in his car before he decides that he’s going to drive to the Van Dahl manor. The rain turns lashing, hitting the windshield heavily and Jim leans in, trying to see the road. It feels like the whole city is out there, running around like agitated ants trying to find shelter. Once Jim leaves the center, it becomes easier to navigate on the streets.

 

The Van Dahl Manor is all the way at the other side of Gotham, the mansion skirting just on the edges of the city's limits. By the time Jim arrives at the mayor's long-winding driveway, it has already grown dark.

  
  
He pauses, doesn't move to switch the ignition off, letting the vibrations of the engine humming blend into the sounds of the rain, pelting down against the top of his car. Jim stares ahead, the cool air hitting his face, causing the tapered ends of his slightly damp hair plastered to his forehead to move. He can't make out a single thing through the window despite the yellow glow his headlights cast, unable to cut through the pitch darkness and the heavy rain.

  
  
His hands slide down each side of the steering wheel, before pulling out the papers from his coat, settling the powdered sugar stained documents on his lap. Jim doesn't understand what he's doing here. He shouldn't be parked outside Oswald Cobblepot's home. He could've easily called Harvey after discovering the mayor wasn't at City Hall and had gone home, delivering the papers first thing tomorrow morning.

 

Under the layers of anger, frustration, and hurt, in his heart of hearts, Jim knows why he’s here. He clenches his fists as he thinks back to his visit just two weeks ago. Things were going so well then; his relationship with Oswald had never been better. In fact, as they were walking in the garden adjacent to the mansion and discussing the charity ball, there was a flutter in Jim’s stomach every time Oswald smiled at him. In a crazy moment, Jim almost leaned in to kiss Oswald, but then he held back and just listened to the mayor talk excitedly about his plans.

 

What a fool he has been! He has no idea how things have deteriorated so much, so quickly. What made Oswald say those things, in front of all those people? Jim massages his temple, willing the cruel words to stop ringing in his head ‒ he’s recalled them too often at night, always with the same result: heartache. He breathes in deeply in order to calm himself. The mayor just played him and then showed his true colors. Good thing they cut ties with Oswald before things got more serious.

  
  
Jim slams the driver door louder than necessary, but the noise is lost to the sounds of the storm, the rain drowning it out. He's soaked to the bone before he reaches the doorsteps. Every droplet of rain washes another wave of anger over him. He pounds his fist against the door, completely ignoring the doorbell. He knows it’s a lost cause. Oswald nor any of his employees would hear it over the rainfall, but it felt almost cathartic beating his fists against something. Finally, after his third attempt of knocking, he presses his index finger against the doorbell, refusing to let up.

 

Thankfully, he doesn't have to wait too long before the door opens. He's expecting one of Oswald's employees to answer the door, but it's the man of the house himself, annoyed and glaring at Jim for disturbing whatever it was he had been doing.  

 

 _Good,_ Jim thinks. Even though there's an ache settling in his chest at the stark difference of the present and the last time Oswald greeted him at the door. No irritation in sight.

 

"Detective Gordon." Oswald's voice drips with disdain, fingers yanking the silk, expensive robe he’s wearing together and angrily tying the strings. "One push on the doorbell would have been sufficient enough."

 

"Yeah, well had to make sure to get your attention. There are better ways I could spend my evening than standing on your doorstep in the pouring rain."

  
  
Oswald narrows his eyes. "You certainly have my attention now. What is it that you want, detective?"

  
  
"You weren't at City Hall. Sign these," Jim bluntly explains, pushing the soggy documents hard against Oswald's chest.

  
  
Oswald's mouth curls in disgust as he accepts the papers, holding them out away from him, pinched between his thumb and index finger.

  
  
"Did you even attempt to keep these dry? How thoughtful of you, another performance of the GCPD's competency, right here at my doorstep. Brute force and sloppy police work. Should I give you a big round of applause for your efforts?"

  
  
Jim clenches his jaw, biting his tongue to avoid snapping back a retort. His plans were to get the papers signed and be on his merry way. "Just sign the damn papers, Oswald. I don't have all night."

  
  
"Patience has never been your strong suit, has it?"

  
  
"Yeah, and subtlety has never been yours," Jim shoots back, failing to hold his tongue.

  
  
Oswald pursed his lips, staring at Jim before dropping his gaze to give a glance over the documents. "I'll need my glasses."

  
  
"Glasses? You don't need to read it, just sign your name. It's just routine paperwork." Jim knows Oswald is aware of that too. It wasn't anything he hasn't already signed before.

  
  
"I don't know how the Gotham police conduct themselves, but we at City Hall, at the very least, look over the documents before signing them blindly."

  
  
Another dig at the GCPD. Jim is almost tempted to just leave the papers there, get into his car and drive off, but he has a job to do and it isn't getting into a verbal sparring match with Cobblepot.

  
  
He recalls Harvey's earlier words: "Try to stay on his good side." It’s a game with Oswald. The more polite Jim is, the faster they could hurry this along and Jim could leave and return to his empty apartment.

  
  
Jim inhales, gives a tight smile. "I'm sorry for the impertinence, Mr. Mayor. It's been a long day."

  
  
It seems to work because Oswald hesitates, eyeing him with consideration.

  
  
"Come inside and wait," he murmurs.

 

Oswald leads him to a familiar office ‒ they spent a couple of evenings there, which started as official meetings, but then they always became friendly conversations, coupled with some drinks. Jim tries not to think about how they were sat in those armchairs, talking and laughing as if they were best friends.

 

But now Oswald is taking a seat at his huge desk, reading the files after he puts on his glasses, and Jim lets go of the painful memory, telling himself that Oswald will just sign those papers and he’ll be gone in a minute. He thinks about how he should stop by that corner shop and get himself something stronger to drink than the beers he has in his fridge. He’s effectively trembling as Oswald takes his pen and is about to sign the pages. However, the moment the side of his hand touches the paper, he snatches it back.

 

“I’m sorry, Jim, but these documents are still too wet to sign. The ink would get all smudged,” Oswald says seriously as he looks up. “You’ll have to wait a bit.”

 

_Wait?_

 

It’s like something has just broken inside of Jim or maybe the devil possesses him.

 

“Bullshit. Stop stalling for time and sign them!”

 

Oswald flinches at his tone, but he regains his composure in the next moment. “And why would I do that?! Believe me, I don’t want to spend any extra seconds in your company either. But I know that the pen would leave a blot and then you’d have to come back with a new set of papers.”

 

Meanwhile, the storm seems to get stronger outside; the wind squeezes inside the house, into all the nooks and corners and Jim shivers, as if a chill has just suddenly unfolded in the office. Nevertheless, he feels a fire flare up inside him and flow into his veins, spreading his ire throughout his body.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Cobblepot, just take a damn biro! Who even uses fountain pens anymore?” Jim can feel his cheeks burning and he refrains from reaching out and choking the man.

 

“I will write with whatever I please, detective!” Oswald shouts, slamming his pen against the tabletop. “You cannot talk to me like this, I am your mayor!”

 

Jim can feel his pulse at the back of his head, black spots floating in his line of vision. The wind makes the branches of the trees bang against the house violently, raindrops hitting the window as if they are bullets sent from the sky. For a brief moment, he wonders if it’s hail, but then Jim meets Oswald’s icy glare and he forgets about the storm.

 

“Yes, Cobblepot, I am quite aware of that as you take every damn opportunity to flaunt the fact in my face. Did you think that I wouldn’t realize that this new law you implemented is just scheming against the police force? Against _me_?!”

 

Oswald closes his eyes, his skin turning pale. He takes off his glasses with infuriating slowness. Leaning against the table, he gets up quickly, his hands clenched into fists, ready for battle. It almost makes Jim take a step back, but he can see that Oswald is holding himself back, by the way his lips are pressed into a thin line.

 

“You know what’s your problem, Jim? You have absolutely no respect for me,” Oswald starts with an eerie calmness. “Years ago, I thought that was normal. I was an umbrella boy, so why would anyone treat me nicely, right?” Oswald laughs bitterly.

 

“But then you appeared and you spared my life on that cursed pier. I thought to myself ‘look, someone who finally sees me as a human’. So I was certain that as I would climb the ladder, I would gain everyone’s respect. Except for one person’s,” Oswald holds up his index finger, then points it at Jim. “ _Yours_.”

 

“I’ve been a club owner, the King of Gotham, I saved your sorry life more times than I can count on my fingers, and I’m your mayor now. Yet Jim Gordon still treats me as if I’m worth less than the dirt under his shoes.”

 

"I don't," Jim disagrees, shaking his head, but it feels like he's trying to convince himself of that more than Oswald. Jim struggles not to think about Arkham or the other numerous occasions where he has been less than grateful for Oswald's help.

  
  
A part of him knows Oswald's right. But that was before. Jim kept Oswald at arm's length because at the time Jim didn't think of Oswald anything more than just a criminal. He couldn't. But the last few weeks their relationship has blossomed, teetering on the border of uncertain friends into something much more dangerous. Jim has started growing fond of the gangster.

  
  
"You do, you always have," Oswald argues, stepping closer. Jim feels the heat under his skin. Blood rushing through his veins as his anger spikes.

  
  
"Maybe you're right, maybe I did treat you like that," Jim admits. Oswald looks taken aback at this. "But what were you expecting from me, Oswald? A hug?

  
  
"A kiss?" Jim's voice drops, turning huskier as he watches Oswald's eyes darken. Jim didn't mean to say that, the words have slipped out. The last couple of weeks that's all Jim's been able to think about: kissing Oswald.

  
  
Oswald's standing so close. Merely inches away. Close enough where Jim can see his pulse throb against the side of his neck. With each breath, Jim inhales Oswald's cologne and the scent of the rain still lingering from his damp clothes. The two aromas blending, complementing one another.

  
  
The temptation to kiss Oswald swells within Jim. It's heavy, all the feelings that developed over the past few weeks start to stir once more, ready to snap, break free from under the pressure. Jim couldn't handle it any longer. He leans forward, ready to release all that pent up energy between them, but stops just short of millimeters from Oswald's lips.

  
  
Oswald's cool breath hits his mouth. Oswald's completely still as if time has suspended itself. Jim realizes that Oswald's waiting for him, head tilted backward so eagerly, so willingly that Jim knows that Oswald wouldn't object if he leans just a bit closer, taking his mouth in a bruising kiss.

  
  
But the words that Oswald said the night of the gala replays in his mind like a broken record. Oswald publicly denounced the precinct in front of everyone, not only had he humiliated the GCPD, he had subtly crucified Jim's reputation in front of the press.

  
  
_Jim hadn't been able to tear his eyes away, watching Oswald stand behind the podium on stage, stunning in a dark tuxedo with a matching bowtie. His face, though, was similar to a statue, empty and expressionless._

 _  
_ _  
_ _"Mr. Mayor!" A journalist had waved her hand wildly, desperate to attain Oswald's attention. "You've said recently that you planned to work alongside the GCPD. What are some of the things you intend to do?"_

 _  
_ _  
_ _Oswald bitterly smiled. "The GCPD, as we're all aware, is riddled with corruption. The first step is to cleanse the precinct of its liars and the officers that abuse their power."_ _  
_

 

_Jim was stunned at hearing the insults Oswald hurled the precinct's way. Jim had confided with Oswald about his anxiety over the public's opinion of the GCPD and how he wished they could improve it. Oswald had taken his hand in his and promised Jim that they would fix it, together._

 

 _  
_ _The crowd of reporters was silent for a moment, glancing at each other, puzzled by the mayor's words, before the same reporter with the earlier question cleared her throat._

 _  
_ _  
_ _"You sound privy to knowledge of the GCPD's misconduct. Is there anything the GCPD is hiding from the press?"_

 _  
_ _  
_ _Oswald locked eyes with Jim, never leaving his as he answered. "Ask Jim Gordon. He should know all about that."_

 _  
_ _  
_ _The blow Jim had felt from Oswald’s actions left him breathless, gasping for air. Oswald had stabbed him in the back, twisted the knife in a little deeper and blindsided him. He had fallen for Oswald's act like a fool. He was too angry to admit he had fallen for more than Oswald's act._

 _  
_  
Jim sharply pulls away. "You're a criminal. I almost, _almost_ thought that you were capable of being more than just that. Tell me, how were you expecting me to treat you when you keep proving me right?"

  
  
"With some human fucking decency!” Oswald coldly snaps, he jabs his index finger at Jim’s chest. “That's what I was expecting from you, a friend, but you were never capable of seeing me more than just some freak, isn’t that right, detective?"

 

Oswald’s words leave Jim confused, his voice a mixture between rage and hurt. The Mayor acts as if he’s just dropped the smoking gun and Jim feels as if he’s supposed to understand what Oswald was referring to, but no explanation comes to mind.

 

“Oswald, what are you talking-?” A loud crack of thunder interrupts Jim and the electricity flickers out for a second.

 

Oswald glances up, but his eyes holding just as much anger when he finally looks back at Jim. “Don’t put on an innocent air, Jim! I overheard you talking on the phone at the ball, saying how you had your eyes on the arrogant freak. I should have known you were only after incriminatory information.”

 

Jim furrows his brows and manages to mutter a quiet ‘what’, before he realizes what Oswald meant.

 

 _Oh fuck_.

 

Jim did say those things when talking to Harvey, but Oswald wasn’t supposed to hear them. The mayor is looking at him expectantly, but Jim can’t say anything now, he is physically incapable. He feels the room spin, he feels slightly sick. He needs to get out of the house and mourn another ruined friendship. Jim doesn’t care about the papers, Oswald can have them delivered later, directly to Harvey.

 

However, just as Jim is about to leave, there’s another thunderclap. They must be in the middle of the storm, because it sounded as if had happened right beside them, deafeningly loud and making the whole house shake. In that same moment, the electricity goes out and Oswald grasps Jim’s right wrist tightly, making a scared noise.

 

“Oswald, are you alright?” Jim asks, the fight suddenly forgotten.

 

“Of course, of course,” Oswald says hurriedly, but his fingers seem to squeeze tighter Jim’s wrist. “Just a storm.”

 

However, when the thunder illuminates the room, Jim can see how pallid Oswald looks, his wide eyes pleading with the detective whose heart softens rapidly. Now that darkness envelops the room, Jim can see more clearly the ravaging going on outside and his previous thoughts about leaving don’t seem so attractive anymore.

 

There’s also Oswald, who seems frightened out of his mind, clinging to him and scrunching his eyes shut. He’s humping his shoulders every time there’s a thunder. Who would have thought that Oswald is afraid of storms. It strikes Jim how innocent and vulnerable he looks and he must summon all his self-control in order not to take Oswald in his arms.

 

He knows the man won’t say anything, so Jim swallows his pride. He has to offer, his guilty conscience nagging him, even though he is quite certain Oswald is going to refuse. “Oswald, I know you probably want me out of your sight, but may I stay until the storm passes?”

 

“Of course, Jim, of course! In fact, I _insist_!” Oswald says a bit too quickly and loudly, his fingers sliding off and grabbing Jim’s almost painfully. “You shouldn’t drive in this kind of weather, you could easily have an accident.”

 

Jim’s mind briefly goes back to the night of his father’s accident; it wasn’t even raining this hard then and the accident was caused by a drunk driver. He only notices that he’s clutching Oswald’s hand when Oswald’s thumb briefly strokes the back of his hand.

 

“Let’s go and wait out the storm in the basement. I prepared some things there for this kind of situation,” Oswald says, then goes to his desk. “I have a flashlight somewhere here.”

 

After a few seconds, Oswald finds it in one of his drawers and turns it on with a smile. He jumps when there’s a thunderclap, making him rush out of the office. Jim follows, still in a daze. He didn’t expect Oswald to let him stay, especially after their fight and the new offenses he managed to throw at the man. Jim hopes that the storm will pass quickly, as he doesn’t believe that they are able to discuss their issues, not yet anyway.

 

“Why are we going to the basement?” Jim asks, confused. “We can just sit in your living room.”

 

“No, no, I think this is a serious situation, Jim. We’ll listen to the news. Besides, I have everything there and the sounds shouldn’t be so loud,” Oswald explains as they are descending the stairs.

 

Jim notices the way the beam of light is trembling on the stairs and he contemplates Oswald’s face from profile, his jaw set tight. Jim doubts that it is because of his knee, so he decides to indulge him. Everyone has fears; Jim still has nightmares of the accident and of becoming a corrupted man. That Oswald is terrified of storms is somewhat surprising; it must be a lingering fear from his childhood. Jim tries to ignore the fluttering in his stomach and helps Oswald open the door of the basement.

 

Jim's curious what's behind the door, to know what is so special about Oswald's basement that they couldn't remain upstairs. However, just like earlier, Jim couldn't make out a single thing while standing in the pitch darkness of Oswald's basement.

  
  
"Just a second." Oswald fumbles with his flashlight, searching for something. The light seems to bounce off each corner of the room before it finally settles on whatever Oswald was looking for.

  
  
Jim can make out the enlarged silhouette of some lanterns and other supplies casting off against the wall.

  
  
He watches silently, a couple of steps behind the mayor, as Oswald struggles, attempting to balance two lanterns at once plus hold the flashlight where he can properly see what he was doing. Jim takes pity on him and steps forward, catching Oswald's wrist, stopping him in his tracks.

  
  
Jim can feel the steady thrum of Oswald's pulse, his finger splayed right across the gangster's wrist. "Oswald..."

  
  
Oswald tenses, Jim can see Oswald's shoulders hitch upwards before, after a beat, Oswald relaxes, letting out a shaky exhale as his shoulders slump.

  
  
"Let me help," Jim whispers.

  
  
For a second, Jim thinks Oswald's going to refuse his offer, but Oswald just nods. "Alright. Could you hold the flashlight?"

  
  
Following after Oswald, Jim holds the flashlight still, aiming the beam of light over Oswald's shoulder as he ducks at the waist, digging into a tall cardboard box before pulling out a box of matches.

  
  
After several lanterns are lit, light floods the basement, rendering the flashlight useless. Jim clicks it off, setting it down as he glances around the basement. Oswald wasn't kidding. His basement is fully stocked with supplies: it looks more like a storm shelter than a basement.

 

"You seem..." Jim's careful with his choice of words, worried about offending Oswald.  He settles with, "prepared."

  
  
Jim cautiously watches Oswald a couple feet away, fighting the urge to press a hand along the slope of Oswald's back to steady the gangster as Oswald precariously stands on his tip-toes, hanging the lantern up on a nail. He wants to ensure that Oswald doesn't lose his balance, but Jim knows Oswald would jerk away from his touch.

  
  
Jim's not sure he could handle being proven right.

  
  
"I know how this looks," Oswald starts, not facing the detective. Jim considers Oswald as he struggles, but finally, manages to hook the handle of the lantern up on the wall. "I'm not crazy."

  
  
Jim holds up his hands when Oswald turns around,  "I didn't say anything."

  
  
"No, but you were thinking it."

  
  
Jim scoffs, but he can feel the corners of his lips twitching, fighting against a smile because this reminds him all too much of their encounters before the night of the gala. When they were getting along, a familiarity settling between them where they could predict each other's reactions.

  
  
"What? You're a mind reader now?" Jim continues, wanting to see that cute pout Oswald does when Jim riles him up so.

  
  
Oswald looks as if he's ready to toss something at Jim's head. Jim struggles not the laugh when that familiar pout returns.

  
  
"I don't need to read your mind, detective," Oswald says, exasperation coloring his voice. "I happen to know you, Jim Gordon. I know that face."

  
  
Something catches in Jim's chest at Oswald’s words. Oswald knows him. Better than anyone else, Jim could argue.

  
  
"I know you do," Jim respond softly.

  
  
Oswald pauses. Jim could see an array of emotions flitting across Oswald's face. Confusion as his eyebrows draw together. Frustration with the way Oswald's mouth twitches. But it's his eyes that reveal uncertainty like Oswald doesn't know how to consider Jim's words. Jim can only hope that enough proof that Oswald doesn't completely despise him just yet.

  
  
"Oswald..." Jim wants to apologize, for his actions at the gala, for his previous transactions, for everything; however, the words never seem to leave his throat.

  
  
Seconds stretch into minutes, but no amends are made, no explanations and Jim's silence seems to make up Oswald's mind, choosing to remain angry with him.

  
  
He glowers at the detective before the expression melts away, replaced with fear, hearing the muffled sounds of thunder overhead. The flash of lightning across the window seems to kick start Oswald into action, he startles, moving towards a radio.

  
  
"It's battery-powered," Oswald explains, fiddling with the knobs until he finds a station announcing the weather. "I keep it just in case of emergencies, like this."

  
  
Jim discerns just how terrified Oswald is, his pale, slender hands shaking as he increases the volume. The radio crackles, but a man's voice comes through, audible, through the speakers.

  
  
It appears they are under a weather advisory for severe lightning and thunderstorms, as well as some flooding, but with the way Oswald grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white, by his reaction, Jim would think that it has been announced that Apocalypse is nigh.

  
  
"Enough of that." Jim catches Oswald's wrist, as he searches for another station relaying updates on the storm. “Let’s listen to some music.”

 

Oswald stares at Jim for a long moment, then sighs. “Fine, but if this storm gets worse and we won’t even know if we’re going to be stuck here for three days, then it will be your fault.”

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Jim murmurs, then smiles when Oswald finally finds a station playing some kind of pop song.

 

Oswald limps to a nearby sofa and plops down on it, then pats the place beside him when Jim still hasn’t moved with a confused expression, as if wondering why the detective hasn’t followed him. Jim swallows; the sofa is not that narrow… he craves Oswald’s proximity, but just to be safe, he leaves some space between their bodies. Once seated, Jim looks over at Oswald, blushing when he notices that the man is watching him. The moment is interrupted by a loud thunder, the sky rumbling angrily.

 

“How about we play some card games?” Oswald asks a bit too loudly and he gets up before Jim can even reply.

 

“Sure…” Jim says, leaning against the sofa and closing his eyes while a new, slower song fills the air. He doesn’t even know when was the last time he played cards.

 

Oswald returns with a box and Jim opens one eye, peeking inside it with curiosity. Card decks and dies from what Jim can see.

 

“So, what would you like to play? I have French cards and Uno too,” Oswald says, rummaging through the contents.

 

Jim smiles. “Uno sounds good.”

 

“I must warn you, Jim, that I am unbeatable at it,” Oswald says matter-of-factly and Jim can’t help laughing at his serious tone.

 

“Okay, bring it on.”

 

Unfortunately for Jim, the gangster didn’t joke about his talent at this particular game. Oswald beat him in all the five rounds they have played so far. Jim is very much impressed, but on some level also irritated, though he doesn’t show it. Or, well, he thinks he hides it well, until Oswald starts teasing him.

 

“I know you’re cheating, Oswald,” Jim says in a flat tone as he looks up from the draw two card his opponent has just sprung on him with an evil grin.

 

“Nonsense. You dealt this round, remember?”

 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t have some cards up your sleeve,” Jim narrows his eyes, then reluctantly draws the two cards as his punishment.

 

“I bet you’ll say this one is from there too,” Oswald says innocently as he places another draw two card, effectively winning the game again.

 

Jim feels all his hopes and dreams die. “Oh, come on! This is bullshit!” he exclaims, Oswald hiding his laughter behind his hand.

 

“I didn’t take you for a sore loser, Jim Gordon.”

 

“I’m not a-” Jim starts, his voice suddenly dropping when Oswald raises his eyebrows, clearly amused by the situation. “I’m not a sore loser,” Jim tries again.

 

“Of course not. You just shout and pout when things don’t happen your way.”

 

Jim swallows at the jibe, glances at Oswald to see how seriously he meant it. Oswald is gathering the cards, very focused on this simple task, seemingly unable to look the detective in the eyes, as if he’s just realized the meaning of his words. Jim wishes he could explain the misunderstanding, to finally dispel this awkwardness between them, but the moment isn’t right. Besides, the storm seems to have intensified during their game, the crazy whistle of the wind getting louder. Not even the jazzy music can cover it.

 

Since Oswald is just shuffling the cards absentmindedly, Jim picks up the box. The first thing he notices is a piece of paper, for keeping the scores. There are two columns, one for ‘Dad’ and the other one for ‘Oswald’ written in Oswald’s distinctive cursive. Jim swallows and glances at Oswald then places the piece of paper back before the man could notice. Although they have talked about Mr. Van Dahl before, Jim doesn’t think he should bring him up now.

 

He picks up a regular deck instead, thinking about those long poker nights in the army when they would sit around a table, with cigarettes and whisky, playing for cents. Or when they didn’t want to play for money, the loser had to clean the boots of the others. Jim smiles at the tricks his friend, Tom, showed him and wonders if he can recall them well enough to show them to Oswald.

 

“Hey, want to see a trick?”

 

Oswald looks at him surprised and puts down his own deck. “Sure.”

 

Jim feels suddenly nervous as Oswald gives him his full attention. Maybe this was a silly idea; after all, he hasn’t practiced in forever. Jim shuffles the cards quickly and goes over the motions in his head. He spreads them on the sofa and at Oswald’s inquisitive look, Jim encourages him. “Go on, pick one. Look at it and memorize it.”

 

Oswald selects a card and makes sure that Jim can’t see it. After a second, he gives it back to Jim who puts it back in the deck ‒ in the position Jim needs it to be ‒ and he shuffles them again, to create the illusion of having the cards mixed very well. He’s quite confident that the trick will come out well, but he tries to keep his poker face, so as not to raise Oswald’s suspicions.

 

After some shuffling tricks, Jim picks a card and gives it to Oswald. “Is this your card?”

 

The gangster turns it over, the excited spark in his eyes dimming. “Umm… no. I’m sorry, it’s not.”

 

“Oh,” Jim says quietly and he has to look away so as not to burst out laughing and ruining the whole thing.

 

Oswald is extending his hand with the card and Jim takes it gently in his, a soft sigh leaving Oswald’s lips.

 

“Perhaps this will help then,” Jim says and he’s grinning now as he passes his other hand over the card, distracting Oswald as he’s changing it with the one in his palm. He taps with his index finger on the back of the card, then leans in and blows over it, all the while looking into Oswald’s eyes, just as Tom used to, when he’d charm girls in bars. Jim faintly registers a thunder in the background, but Oswald seems transfixed by his look, not even his eyelashes fluttering.

 

“Did I get the right card now?” Jim aks, still holding Oswald’s hand.

 

The man slowly looks down and turns the card, and indeed, it’s the ace of hearts Oswald picked at the beginning. Confusion flits over his face, but then he smiles. “How did you do that?”

 

“A good magician never reveals his secrets,” Jim replies and Oswald rolls his eyes.

 

Jim is about to put back the cards in the box when his attention is caught by an intriguing deck he’s never seen before. “What kind of cards are these?”

 

“Oh, mother called them German cards. It’s the same as the French ones, only the cards have a different pattern,” Oswald says and Jim feels the mayor watching him as he takes out the cards and looks through them. Jim assumes that the nostalgic look is due to a memory with Mrs. Kapelput.

 

Oswald is lightly scratching the arm of the sofa, not looking at Jim as he says the next words, as if he’s unsure whether he should confide such information to him. “You know, my father told me he got this deck from my mother. On their last night together, before they got separated. Father kept them all this time.”

 

“I see…” Jim wishes he could be more eloquent, looking through the unusual cards.

 

Oswald reaches for some of them, placing one with each pattern on the sofa. “See, they depict the seasons. Hearts represents spring, bells is for summer, leaves is for fall and acorn for winter. You know, my mother used to do readings for our neighbors for some extra money.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, but I never learned how to do it,” Oswald says quietly, the lost opportunity making him downcast.

 

There's a tightness that occupies the spaces between Jim's lungs, filling the cavity with a familiar ache that Jim has grown used to during these quiet moments with Oswald.

  
  
Jim remembers the first time Oswald mentioned his parents in their past conversations. The way his mouth had fallen open mid-sentence, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed painfully, watery eyes and a sad smile.

  
  
It stung, Oswald visibly upset over the loss of his parents. Jim’s thoughts lied with his own father and Jim had been desperate, wanting to comfort Oswald. He remembers the way Oswald snapped his gaze up at him when Jim took his hand in his, thumb absently stroking Oswald's skin underneath and how Oswald’s shaky breath soon followed after. Relief.

  
  
He wants to give that to Oswald once more.

  
  
Oswald's not looking at him. His eyes turned downward staring at his hands, a finger hovering above the card with the acorn adorning it. Jim wonders if he's trying to remember the last time he took his mother's hand.

  
  
It dawns on Jim just how alone Oswald is. Jim's father had been torn from him at a very young age, but he still had his mother to tuck him in at night, to comfort him when his grief was too overwhelming. Oswald didn't have that anymore. No one there for him on nights like these, when the night sky rumbles with thunder and lightning struck across.

  
  
Jim clears his throat. "You know... I can read palms." He wasn't expecting the loud snort from the gangster. Clearly, Oswald doesn't believe him.

  
  
"No, you can't."

  
  
"What, you don't believe me?"

  
  
Oswald's head falls to the side as he turns where he's facing Jim on the sofa. Jim finds his body following Oswald's, moving to do the same, turning to face the gangster as he leans back against the couch. He ignores the way his knee brushes against Oswald's. He doesn't move his leg and neither does Oswald.

  
  
Jim doesn't even care that Oswald thinks he's lying, even though saying he's capable of such a task is a stretch of the truth. Jim got what he wanted: Oswald's attention.

  
  
Oswald snorts again before he answers truthfully. "I don't, no."

  
  
"Why not?" Jim asks, actually curious to hear Oswald's answer.

  
  
Oswald huffs, "Because you're you. You're a detective. All about facts and logic. Jim Gordon doesn't partake in hokey mystical mumbo jumbo."

  
Jim gingerly collects the cards still lying on the cushion between the two, not wanting to bend the only reminder of Oswald's mother. He hands them to Oswald who carefully tucks them away with the rest of the cards.

  
  
"I know you're used to being right all the time, but you're wrong about this." Jim grins when Oswald opens his mouth to give some snappy retort, but Jim cuts him off, holding his hand out. "Give me your palm. Let's see what mumbo jumbo lies in it."

  
  
"You're ridiculous." Regardless of his words, Oswald stretches his arm forward, letting his fingertips brush along Jim's palm.

  
  
Jim laughs, turning Oswald's hand over in his, where the palm faced upward. "I wouldn't insult the man about to read your future. Might have an effect on the reading."

  
  
"Sounds like something a charleton would say."

  
  
Jim bites his bottom lip to stifle his chuckle, but instead, he attempts to turn his expression serious, studying Oswald's hand intently.

  
  
He frowns, "Hmm, doesn't look so good… looks like a lot of hardships are ahead and to think this all could've been avoided if you had been a little nicer to me."

  
  
Oswald snatches his hand back, blowing out a small puff of air, but the gangster's laughing and that's all it takes to dispel the tightness in Jim's chest. Oswald's color seems to have returned to his face, a dusty pink settling in his cheeks as he laughs. He seems distracted enough by Jim's shenanigans to forget about the storm for a little while.

  
  
"Here." Jim reaches for Oswald's hand once more. There's no reluctance, Oswald's completely pliant, yielding and allowing Jim to take his hand without putting up any struggle.

  
  
Jim allows himself to take his time. He runs his fingertips along the lines carved deep in Oswald's palm. He wants to memorize them, the creases, the weight of his hand, the smooth skin marked with callouses at the edges.

  
  
The atmosphere around them shifts, a quiet one with something burning underneath, smoldering. Jim's suddenly hyper aware of his surroundings: the muffled rainfall, watching Oswald's chest fall and quickly rise each time he breathes, the tingling in his fingertips from touching Oswald.

  
  
Oswald shifts and the movement breaks the spell. Jim peers up at the gangster, seeing his obvious discomfort. Jim realizes he has just been gawking at Oswald's palm for the last several minutes.

  
  
He struggles to recall just what each wrinkle meant. The person who taught him wasn't exactly a credible teacher. Merely a way to pass time after they had arrested a disorderly citizen, who clearly had been high as a kite, in the back of a cruiser while they waited, but Oswald doesn't need to know that.

  
  
"You have a long life ahead of you." His eyes follow what he thinks is the life line. He traces along the broken line, having no idea what it means.

  
  
Jim lightly scrapes his fingernail against another line, "See here? This is where your mob boss career line ends." He grins, finger following where the line breaks off and branches out. "While the mayoral career is really long."

  
  
He glances up, needing to see Oswald's reaction and he isn't disappointed. Oswald's grinning at him and it's contagious. Jim can't help but return the smile.

  
  
"That's not what it means!" Oswald playfully slaps at Jim's arm.

  
  
Jim shakes his head, pulling Oswald's hand to his chest, covering it with his own. Jim wants to pull Oswald closer. "You shouldn't question my palm reading skills, Oswald."

  
  
"What skills?" Oswald snorts.

  
  
"I'll have you know, I learned this in five minutes with a suspect in the back of a police cruiser. I think that makes me an expert."

  
  
"You're ridiculous," Oswald repeats his words from earlier, but this time he says it a lot fonder.

  
  
"What did I just say about insulting?" Jim brings Oswald's captured hand closer to his face. "Looks like I have to read your palm again."

  
  
Oswald giggles, quickly clenching his hand into a fist, so that Jim can no longer see his palm, but Oswald doesn't pull away ‒ in fact, he leans even closer. Jim wants to kiss Oswald's bare knuckles, to tug Oswald's wrist where the gangster loses his balance and tumbles into his lap.

  
  
Jim just wants Oswald. He wants to get on his knees, to beg for Oswald's forgiveness, to kiss apologies into his skin repeatedly until Oswald absolves him of his transgressions. He thinks, he hopes, that Oswald still cares about him, still has some kind of feelings. Even though Jim wants nothing more than to kiss Oswald, he needs to take things slowly. While he’s had at least a couple of hours to process the fact that Oswald only publicly humiliated him and the GCPD because he thought that Jim had deceived him and pretended to be his friend, this whole thing will be new for the mayor.

 

“Oswald…” Jim starts and he hates how shaky his voice is. “I need to clarify something about that evening at the gala.”

 

Oswald’s smile slips away in the blink of an eye and he’s about to take his hand away from Jim’s, but the detective holds it, looking in his eyes. “Please, listen to me. _Please_.”

 

Oswald turns his head away, but he doesn’t make any attempts to take his hand back or get away, so Jim thinks that is a good sign. He knows this is probably his only chance to make things right. After finally realizing what triggered Oswald’s uncharacteristic behavior, Jim felt like the past weeks have been a lie, a waste of precious time. He cannot believe such a simple misunderstanding could ruin their blossoming friendship.

 

“It’s true that I was talking to Harvey then, but I wasn’t talking about you.”

 

“Yeah, right,” Oswald murmurs, clearly not believing Jim.

 

“I really wasn’t, please believe me. Your gala offered the perfect opportunity to keep my eyes on Jeremiah Flint.”

 

Oswald turns his head slowly, prompting Jim to continue.

 

“When I was here the last time, I saw his name on the guest list. I told Harvey about it since we’ve long been suspecting him of being the head of this secret organization that makes human sacrifices.”

 

“What?” Oswald looks at Jim, frowning. “Why haven’t I heard about this?!”

 

“They are very thorough. They leave all the murder scenes incredibly clean. Absolutely no prints and we rarely find any remains of the victims. People just disappear without a trace,” Jim explains, a flicker of hope ignites inside him when Oswald’s eyes widen. “We did find an eyewitness, though. An alcoholic homeless man told us that when he woke up in the warehouse, behind some wooden boxes, he heard strange chanting. He thought he was hallucinating and didn’t see much, just this tall man with a purplish birthmark on his right cheek.”

 

“Flint…” Oswald says, touching his own cheek where Jeremiah’s birthmark is.

 

“Exactly,” Jim says hurriedly, squeezing Oswald’s hand. “But we had no proof. He’s very elusive, so I thought I’d keep my eyes on him at the gala. They’ve done some very messed up things, Oswald. Horrible ones. The remains we found…” Jim shakes his head, willing the images to go away. He needs to focus on his apology.

 

“Flint is the freak I was talking about. Not you. I would _never_ call you that,” Jim says, making sure that Oswald is looking at him, to see that he is completely sincere. “I am so sorry, I should have told you about this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

 

Oswald looks at his lap, all kinds of emotions flitting on his face. He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. “Human sacrifices you say?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, that explains a lot of things. His slightly maniacal smile has always creeped me out,” Oswald says finally, and Jim lets out a sigh, squeezing Oswald’s hands gratefully.

 

“He’s one sick bastard, that’s for sure.”

 

Oswald looks as if he’s about to say something, but suddenly Jim’s stomach growls loudly, makes it known that it’s empty.

 

“Sorry,” Jim says, mortified, letting go of Oswald’s hand and pressing it against his stomach, trying to make it shut up.

 

“It is I who should apologize, I’ve been a bad host!” Oswald says frantically and gets up. “I’m sure there must be some food here!”

 

Jim wishes he had gone out with Harvey for lunch. With the headache and stress of the afternoon, he hasn’t noticed just how hungry he became. He can hear Oswald rummaging on some shelves and muttering to himself, so Jim thinks he’s probably going to starve for some more time.

 

When Oswald returns, he’s holding a small pack of crackers with a dejected expression. “I’m so sorry, this is all I could find. I really need to stock up this place.”

 

“That’s alright, it’s more than nothing,” Jim says and he blushes when Oswald sits beside him, closer than the last time.

 

Jim opens the package and offers it to Oswald. “Oh no, Jim, you should eat it. I know your bad habits, you probably haven’t had anything today, right?”

 

“I had,” Jim lies, thinking about the bitter coffee he drank in the morning.

 

At Jim’s insistence, Oswald takes a cracker and they are munching on them, both men lost in their thoughts. Jim feels as if he can breathe again, not burdened anymore by guilt and regrets. He doesn’t even notice the speed with which he’s swallowing the crackers until suddenly his fingers touch the empty plastic. Unfortunately, his stomach is still growling like a beast, demanding a feast in order to be appeased.

 

“I can’t have you starve here,” Oswald says and takes Jim’s hand, dragging him towards the stairs and picking up the flashlight. Even though he’s terrified of the noises, he’s leaving safety for Jim. “Let’s look for something in the kitchen and then we can bring it back here.”

 

“We don’t have to, Oswald,” Jim says, stopping at the base of the staircase, Oswald already on the first step so that he is now taller than the detective. “I don’t want to bother you.”

 

“Bother me? _Never_ ,” Oswald says and Jim’s stomach flutters because of the way Oswald is watching him in the semi-darkness, his eyes wide open.

 

They finally make it to the kitchen and Jim is holding the flashlight while Oswald is looking through the cabinets for something edible. The first one is a miss, since it only contains some teas and coffee. Slowly, they go through all of them, but they can’t find anything suitable.

 

Jim is getting worried, but not about the prospect of not having any dinner. In fact, he’s concerned that Oswald’s kitchen looks as if no one has been living in the house for some time, as if the owner doesn’t need any nourishment… or that he’s been neglecting it.

 

Defeated, Oswald closes the door of the last cabinet. He cannot even look into Jim’s eyes as he mumbles an apology.

 

“I’m sorry. Olga’s been on holiday for ten days.”

 

“I see…” Jim says, leaning against the counter beside Oswald. “If you don’t mind me asking, though, what have you been eating since then?”

 

“I… I didn’t really keep much food here because I… well, I’ve buried myself in work since the… well, I mean, I’ve been working more lately,” Oswald replies and the ache in Jim’s chest returns with full force when he understands the meaning behind Oswald’s words.

 

Oswald chose to busy his mind with work in order to forget about their ruined evening at the gala.

 

Jim swallows, a tightness lingers around his throat, a lump forming as Oswald refuses to meet Jim's gaze. His fingers twitch at his side; he wants to comfort Oswald, wants to wrap his arm around Oswald's waist and drag him closer.

  
  
He thinks about doing just that, pulling the gangster into an embrace, to feel Oswald's breath hitting against his neck as Oswald settles against him.

  
  
"Oswald..." Jim starts, about to admit that he did the exact same after the gala, worked every case available so he didn't have to think about that evening.

  
  
Oswald peers up at him. There's a familiar look in his gaze, one that he remembers seeing a week before the gala when Oswald pressed an invitation into Jim's hand. He remembered the way his breath had caught, his heart fluttering in his chest.

  
  
Jim had foolishly thought that Oswald was inviting him to the event as a date.

  
  
_"I want you to be there, Jim. I'll need a friend during the event." Jim remembers the way Oswald's mouth curled into a smile as the word left his lips. The hopeful expression on his face._

 _  
_ _  
_ _And the way Oswald's bright smile dimmed as Jim hesitated to respond, still processing, his mind replaying the words 'friend' over and over.  He had thought, over the past few weeks as they grown closer, that something more than mere friendship had been skirting just on the edges, unspoken, but mutual._

 _  
_ _  
_ _Jim must have tricked himself, projected his own feelings onto Oswald. The only longing in the lingering stares they shared was from Jim and Jim alone._

 _  
_ _  
_ _"Of course, I'll be there." Jim accepted the invitation with a tight smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. Oswald, clearly, only wanted to be friends, and regardless of Jim's own personal feelings for Oswald, he'd be there for Oswald as friends. Whatever Oswald needed._

 _  
_  
Jim squeezes his fingers, digging them into his own palm to avoid doing something stupid like stroking the gangster's cheek to ease him from his distress over the lack of food to offer.

  
  
"Listen, I might have some extra food out in my car. Not much, just some snacks that Harvey left for stakeouts." Jim shrugs. "Maybe enough to tide us over until the electricity kicks back on. I'll be right back."

  
  
Jim isn't looking forward to the stepping out into the storm ‒ he knows the second he makes it off the safety of the porch, he'll be drenched. His stomach grumbles and he knows that Oswald must be starving as well. So the trip, however uncomfortable it will be, is worth it.

  
  
Cool fingers slip around Jim's wrist, stopping him from leaving. "Wait!"

  
  
Jim pauses at how Oswald's voice cracks. He looks over his shoulder back at Oswald. His face appears drained of any color. Lightning flashes, illuminating Oswald's face for a split second, just long enough for Jim to see the absolute terror in the gangster's eyes.

  
  
"You can't go out there," Oswald explains, his grip tightening around Jim's wrist. "It's not safe."

  
  
Jim keeps his voice steady, tries to ignore his pulse skipping at Oswald's concern and prays that Oswald hasn't noticed Jim's erratic heart rate from being touched by him.

  
  
"Oswald-"

  
  
Oswald doesn't give him a chance, though. Shaking his head, "What if you don't come back? What if you get lost in the storm? What if you get struck by lightning? What if you drown?"

  
  
"Drown? That would be quite a feat, given that it's not even flooding." Jim has never seen Oswald so flustered before.

  
  
"We don't know that, do we? You switched the station! Who knows how bad the storm's gotten since then!"

  
  
Jim bites down on his tongue, afraid the words ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’ will slip out. He's pretty sure Oswald wouldn't appreciate being called such terms while he's panicking.

  
  
Oswald goes quiet when Jim's hands cup each of his shoulders. Jim ducks his head to meet Oswald's eyes, even though he isn't all that much taller than the gangster. He smiles reassuringly. "I promise you, Oswald, I'll come back."

  
  
He can feel the tension that lies in Oswald's shoulders underneath his hands. After a moment, Oswald finally nods.

  
  
"Fine, but if something happens to you, Jim..."

  
  
"Hey, hey, hey." Jim's eyes flicker to Oswald's mouth briefly, noticing Oswald's tooth biting into his bottom lip. "Nothing's going to happen to me, alright? I'll be back before you'll even get a chance to miss me."

  
  
Oswald lets out a snort, but a ghost of a smile plays at the corners of his lips. Jim drops his hands to his sides, not realizing he has been absently stroking Oswald's shoulder through the expensive robe. He hopes Oswald can't see how red his face is at the moment. He feels the hard press of the flashlight against his palms. Jim glances down, swallowing at the way Oswald's hand covers his.

  
  
“Take this.”

 

“Thanks, see you soon,” Jim says and turns up the collar of his suit, mentally preparing for the strong wind and harsh rain.

 

“You’re going to get soaking wet like that. Let me give you a raincoat,” Oswald says and takes a navy coat from a hanger.

 

“Oh, good idea,” Jim says as he puts it on and zips it up ‒ it will definitely help keep his shirt somewhat dry at least.

 

He’s ready to step outside when Oswald comes closer, eyes focused on something behind Jim. “The coat also has a hood,” Oswald says and he grabs both sides, pulling it up for the detective.

 

Jim swallows hard, Oswald’s face is just a few inches away from his and he forgets to breathe. Oswald’s fingers stay on the hood for a second, then slip down onto Jim’s chest, lingering there as well. If only Jim could kiss him, maybe just the tip of his nose. That could be considered a friendly gesture, Jim reasons. But before he can even pluck up his courage, Oswald steps back and admires him from head to toe.

 

“Father’s coat fits you perfectly,” Oswald says with a bashful smile and Jim reciprocates it. Oswald always knows how to render him speechless.

 

“I’ll be back soon,” Jim croaks and the quiet ‘be careful’ from Oswald makes his stomach flutter even more.

 

As he turns on the flashlight in the crepuscular light to defy the weather elements, Jim thinks about Oswald’s gesture. If he had even the slightest doubt that Oswald still had a grudge against him, this proved just how easily he forgives Jim. He really shouldn’t, Jim thinks as he’s hurrying towards his car, the wind whipping the rain right in his face.

 

Even while rummaging in the glove compartment and under the seat, Jim cannot get rid of the lump in his throat. Oswald has always trusted him, and borrowing his father’s coat to Jim was his way to placate Jim, to offer an olive branch. He makes a promise to be much, much kinder to Oswald from then on, to be the friend Oswald has been to him.

 

With a few packages in the coat’s pockets, Jim quickly returns, even though the wind is trying to deter him from his path. Jim smiles to himself as he thinks about telling Oswald that although there may not be a flood, the wind would surely pick up frail people and carry them away. He heaves a sigh of relief as soon as soon as he gets to the door.

 

However, when Jim opens it, he almost bumps into Oswald, who seems to have been waiting there all along. His face is etched with worry, until he quickly shuts the door. Jim is surprised when Oswald takes his hands, his warm fingers contrasting with Jim’s, whose skin was chilled by the cold rain.

 

“Are you alright?” Oswald asks, eyes wide and searching Jim’s face.

 

“Of course,” Jim grins as he takes off the hood, then unzips the coat. “It’s pretty bad out there, but not the end of the world. The storm will probably calm down by morning.

 

“And, more importantly, I found some food for us.” Jim smiles even brighter when every trace of concern disappears from Oswald’s face, replaced with an easy smile. “There were some peanuts, beef jerky and a chocolate bar, so our dinner will be delicious.”

 

Oswald snorts as he helps Jim take the raincoat off and he puts it on the hanger to dry. Jim knows Oswald is used to much fancier dishes, but they have to make do with Harvey’s snacks. Once again, they descend the stairs to the basement, albeit in a completely different mood than the first time: Oswald isn’t jittery anymore and Jim is definitely not frustrated about the situation. In fact, he thinks this is a great opportunity to spend more time with Oswald, to mend their relationship.

 

Jim is comforted by the dim light of the basement and the music coming from the radio, the place feeling cozy and warm. So warm, in fact, that after he drops the snacks in Oswald’s lap, he takes off his suit jacket and lays it over the sofa’s arm. He finds Oswald looking at him with a strange expression. “What?” Jim asks, laughing.

 

“It’s, uh, your hair,” Oswald mumbles, concentrating on opening the pack of peanuts. “It got a bit tousled by the wind.”

 

“Oh.” Jim rakes his fingers through his hair, then sits beside Oswald, shoulders almost touching.

 

He extends his open palm and Oswald pours peanuts for him with a smile. Jim sinks deeper in the sofa, so that he can lean his head back. He’s had a long and stressful day, and all the fighting with Oswald has drained him. The burden of another ruined relationship doesn’t weigh his heart down anymore, though, so Jim thinks he could fall asleep on Oswald’s shoulder any moment.

 

But he wants to stay awake and munching peanuts helps. Oswald also seems miles away in his thoughts, probably going over Jim’s words and how it would affect their friendship. They soon finish the small package, though, and Jim takes the beef jerky, struggling a bit before he manages to open it. He offers it to Oswald first, who takes a piece without looking at Jim.

 

“I still owe you an apology, Jim,” Oswald says unexpectedly, making Jim stop eating. “I said some very hurtful things at the gala.”

 

Oswald is flushed and Jim notices that his eyes are glistening. “It’s alright, I know you were just upset.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Oswald shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have said them.”

 

Jim blushes and lightly pats Oswald’s left knee. They remain silent for several minutes, and even though emotions are running high, it is not an uncomfortable silence.

 

“You know I consider you the best detective in Gotham, right?” Oswald whispers, putting his hand over Jim’s. It’s like the warmth of Oswald’s fingers goes straight to Jim’s cheeks, turning them pink.

 

“Thank you,” Jim manages, barely able to contain his smile. He notices the chocolate on the sofa and hands it to Oswald. “Here, I know you like to have something sweet with every meal.”

 

“We’re going to share it,” Oswald says, ripping the package.

 

“No, you don’t have to-”

 

“Please.” Oswald has already torn off half of the chocolate bar and is now holding it out to Jim.

 

“Thanks.” Jim’s fingers brush against Oswald and they both smile.

 

Jim watches Oswald eat the chocolate, sucking the tip of his index finger into his mouth, and Jim quickly looks away, suddenly flustered. But he can't resist watching Oswald as a soft moan escapes Oswald's lips. The gangster's eyes flutter shut as his mouth encloses the rest of his half of the chocolate bar perfectly, causing his cheeks to hollow.

  
  
Jim tries clearing his throat. His fingers flex and twitch against his thigh, feeling the smooth material of his trousers.

  
  
He can't look away.

  
  
"Jim… Why aren't you eating?" Oswald blinks, wide-eyed and so naive that it makes Jim feel ashamed.

  
  
Oswald's simply looking for friendship, nothing more, and here's Jim imagining swallowing Oswald's moans with his mouth, wondering if the taste of chocolate would linger on Oswald's tongue.

  
  
That line of thought is dangerous. One that Jim couldn't explain to Oswald, even though he's certain there's no way Oswald could see his growing erection in this dim lighting. Regardless, Jim quickly pops the chocolate into his mouth.

  
  
"What are you talking about?" He grins widely, mouth full of chocolate.

  
  
Oswald just shakes his head, "Savage. Didn't your mother teach you that you shouldn't speak when you're chewing your food?"

  
  
"Must have missed that lesson." Jim quickly rises to his feet, crossing the room. Jim needs to distance himself, hoping that some space between the two will prevent his improper thoughts from continuing.

  
  
He grips the table, eyes squeezing shut as he inhales loudly through his nose. Images of Oswald flood his mind, and for a second, Jim regrets eating his half of the chocolate treat so quickly, wishing that he, instead, pressed the sweet against Oswald's mouth, splitting apart his lips, hearing that indecent moan come from deep within Oswald's throat. Oswald's tongue flicking, licking up any chocolate residue that remains on Jim's finger before taking the digit into his mouth.

  
  
Jim presses himself against the table, the edge digging into his erection, as he pretends to fiddle with the radio, switching the stations so quickly that there's no way he could discern what is playing. He cautiously bucks his hips forward, just barely not to drawn attention, and Jim chews his bottom lip, preventing a whimper escaping at the delicious pressure against his straining cock pressed up against his zipper.

  
  
His neck tingles, hair standing on the nape; Jim can feel Oswald watch him, no doubt curious about Jim's behavior. Jim dares to rub himself against the table once more, just an inch forward, scarcely noticeable, before settling his elbows across the table to rest his arms as he continues to search for a station.

  
  
His cock twitches, growing harder at the thought of Oswald staring at him, and he wonders for a split second just how Oswald would react if Jim let go of any inhibitions and started grinding against the side of the table.

  
  
Would Oswald get angry? Aroused? Would he move up behind Jim, clasp his wrists tight and push Jim face down on the table, teasing him until he had Jim begging to come right there?

  
  
"Fuck," Jim quietly murmurs, but not quite enough for Oswald not to overhear him.

  
  
"Jim… Are you alright?"

 

  
"Yeah. I'm good." Jim's voice is strained as he responds. "Just trying to find a station."

  
  
Jim scolds himself, feeling like an adolescent boy that isn't in control of his racing hormones. Harvey's words come back to him from the previous day. _"Go home. Wait… forget I said that. Go to some bar, find a pretty girl, get laid. That's an order. Looks like you need it, with the way you've been biting off everyone's head around here."_

 _  
_  
Harvey was right. If Jim was humping tables, he was in desperate need of getting laid. Harvey just didn't know that Jim doesn't want some pretty girl. He wants Oswald.

  
  
Oswald pouting up at him, making his lips plush and dying to be kissed. His chiseled cheekbones begging to be caressed. Soft, dark eyelashes fluttering shut, cheeks warm and pinkened, his blush complementing the bundle of freckles that runs across his nose. Jim wants to kiss every single one.

  
  
Jim knows it’s more than just that though, more than just sex. Jim wants to make Oswald happy.

  
  
Jim groans internally, shifting his thoughts to anything but Oswald and finally, _finally_ , his erection softens.

  
  
His fingers stop twisting the dial when the beginning of a familiar tune starts, floating softly through the speakers and suddenly, Jim is no longer in Oswald's basement. Instead, he is back in his childhood home, sitting on a stool in the kitchen. He remembers his mother's low heels tapping against the checkered tiled floor, her dress swishing back and forth as she sways to the music coming from the radio.

  
  
Jim could never forget his father sneaking through the back door, one hand holding a bouquet of flowers and the other against his mouth, warning Jim to remain quiet.  The squeal of laughter from his mother when his father would wrap his arms around her waist. How she would fight a smile when he asked her to dance, but accepted every time.

  
  
The memory along with the music emboldens the detective, and he looks over his shoulder at Oswald, still seated on the sofa.

  
  
Jim turns the volume dial up, before moving to stand before the couch. "Do you know how to dance, Mr. Mayor?"

  
  
Oswald looks up at him like he couldn't believe Jim is actually asking him such a question. "Of course."

  
  
"My father..." Jim starts and he sees Oswald's forehead wrinkled in confusion at the topic of Jim's father. "-wasn't a perfect man. Something that took me years to reconcile with."

  
  
Oswald's gaze softens and something burns in Jim's chest at Oswald's compassion. Jim knows that he doesn't deserve it. He's treated Oswald like dirt since he's known the gangster and yet Oswald still looks at him like that. It takes all of Jim's control not to lean down and kiss him right then and there.

  
  
"I worshipped the man, thought him to be flawless. However, that wasn't the case. Ma and him would argue, get in a huge fight, dad would go storming out and not come back for hours. But when he did, he always brought back flowers."

  
  
"Along with the flowers, he would always dance with her. Said no Gordon apology was complete without a dance." Oswald's eyes widened with understanding.

  
  
"Now, I don't have the flowers, but..." Jim holds his hand out. Oswald glances at his hand and then at Jim before returning his gaze to Jim's hand.

  
  
"C'mon, Oswald. Dance with me. Let me give you a proper Gordon apology."

  
  
The glow of the lanterns made Oswald's eyes twinkle, clearly amused by Jim, but Oswald settles his hand in Jim's. Jim lets out a content sigh, pleased with Oswald's decision.

  
  
Jim takes hold of Oswald's hand, leading him out to the center of the basement. The tune is upbeat and light. Jim holds Oswald's arm over his head, wanting to spin the gangster, but cautious of hurting Oswald's injured leg, waits for Oswald.

  
  
Oswald quickly realizes what Jim wants and slowly twirls as best as he can with his leg. Jim worries that maybe it was too much, but Oswald is grinning as he turns.

  
  
Jim can't help but mimic his expression, pulling Oswald closer as the lively melody fades into something slower. Jim takes advantage, holding Oswald as close as possible, hand splayed, resting against his lower back.

  
  
Oswald rests his head on Jim's shoulder. Jim can hear Oswald quietly inhaling and can feel each exhale, breath soaking through the material of his shirt, tickling his skin. Jim turns his head slightly, stopping just inches before his nose could bump along Oswald's neck.

  
  
Jim is so gone, caught between the press of Oswald's body and his faint cologne filling his nostrils, that he hasn't realized Oswald was speaking.

  
  
"Is this your definition of dancing?" Oswald draws away, just far enough to fully look at Jim. "This isn't dancing. It's swaying."

  
  
Jim chuckles. "What were you expecting? A waltz?"

  
  
"As a matter of fact, I was."

  
  
"No, you weren't."

  
  
"Well, no, I wasn't. I suppose they don't offer dancing lessons during police academy?”

  
  
Jim shakes his head. "Afraid not. Guess you're stuck with swaying. Hope you aren't too disappointed."

  
  
"No." Jim gets a glimpse of Oswald's smile before he leans back into Jim, head resting on his shoulder once more. "I think I can get used to swaying."

 

Jim smiles, his hold around Oswald’s waist tightening when the sky rumbles again, reminding them that outside their happy little bubble the world is loud and grim. Jim cannot help but think about his state of mind when he came to Oswald’s house earlier. He knows that fights, even between friends, are inevitable, but he never ever wants to be as miserable again because of a silly misunderstanding. Jim wants to start clean and in order to do that, he needs to get rid of the other burdens pressing heavily on his heart.

 

“I know I am very late with this,” Jim says quietly, hand inadvertently rubbing Oswald’s back, “but I would like to apologize for all the shit I’ve done to you. Specifically Arkham…”

 

Oswald sniffles and Jim’s heart feels like it’s going to shatter into a million pieces, and for a long moment he fears Oswald is going to push him away. Instead, Oswald clutches at the back of his shirt, a silent plea for Jim not to let go. That is, of course, as far away from Jim’s thoughts as possible, and he can’t stop himself from moving his left hand to the back of Oswald’s head, stroking his soft hair and whispering his apologies in every way he can.

 

“I forgive you,” Oswald mumbles finally and shivers in Jim’s arms. “I always knew you were a good man.”

 

Jim knows he doesn’t deserve Oswald, but he promises to himself that he will try his best to make Oswald happy and repay the man’s unwavering kindness. He’s not sure how long they sway to the music, he doesn’t even realize when a new song started and his arms wrapped around Oswald in an embrace. Jim doesn’t want to let go, but all the sleepless nights when he was staring at his ceiling catch up with him and he yawns.

 

Jim can feel Oswald’s smile against his shoulder. “Sounds like someone needs to go to sleep,” Oswald says in a sing-song voice, eyes fond as he pats Jim’s cheek, then steps towards the shelves.

 

“Oh, uh, you can take the sofa, I’ll just…” Jim waves his hand awkwardly, hoping that Oswald can’t see just how much he’s blushing from that small gesture, his cheek still tingling.

 

“I have a better idea,” Oswald says when he returns with what looks like a pile of blankets and a sleeping bag on top.

 

Jim freezes, watches as Oswald places the soft blankets on the floor and then the sleeping bag on top of them. He looks up at Jim even as his silk robe falls off his shoulder slightly, revealing pale, freckled skin. Jim swallows heavily; he hasn’t realized that Oswald isn’t wearing clothes underneath the robe. Well, he must be wearing something, and Jim does _not_ think about how the silk must feel against Oswald’s thigh.

 

Instead, he watches as Oswald smooths the blankets proudly. “See? Give me the pillow from the sofa and our ‘bed’ for the night is done.”

 

“For… both of us?” Jim tries not to let anything show on his face as he tosses the pillow to Oswald.

 

“Well, I thought we could share, unless…” Oswald looks at Jim again, eyes wide with fear and hope.

 

“No, you’re right, it will be fine,” Jim says quickly, his rising pulse making him dizzy for a moment.

 

Oswald smiles and zips open the sleeping bag, Jim catching a glimpse of his left calf as Oswald slides inside. “Hurry up,” Oswald says, only his eyes peeking out from the sleeping bag and Jim thinks his cheeks are going to hurt from smiling so much in a single day.

 

Jim takes off his shoes, placing them neatly beside the sofa, stalling for time. He loosens his tie and as he is taking it off, Jim notices that Oswald is watching his every move with eager eyes, head propped up on his hand. Jim blushes at the attention and turns his back to Oswald as he places the tie on the sofa, wondering whether he should keep his shirt on. However, he knows he’ll be too hot with it.

 

Jim looks over his shoulder, catching Oswald’s gaze before he addresses the question. “Would it be alright if I took my shirt off? I have an undershirt too.”

 

Oswald’s mouth opens a bit, before he quickly nods. “Of course, whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

 

“Thanks.” Jim nods, unable to stop blushing even as he turns away and quickly unbuttons his shirt. Secretly, he’s hoping that Oswald is watching him, but he dismisses that thought quickly. For Christ’s sake, he’s going to sleep beside the man, he cannot afford making an ass of himself.

 

Oswald smiles at him sweetly as Jim kneels and gets into the sleeping bag behind him, zipping it back up. It’s definitely a tight fit and there’s a moment of awkwardness as Jim tries to figure out where to put his arm. To lighten the atmosphere, he decides to tell an anecdote. “This reminds me of summer camp one year.”

 

“Really?”

 

Jim snickers. “Yeah, we were camping by this forest and then there was a huge downpour, so they had to evacuate us. We slept in a high school’s gym that night, in sleeping bags. Want to hear a secret?”

 

Oswald turns slightly, Jim catching the unmistakable sparkle in his eye. “Of course!”

 

“I got my first kiss that night, from Sarah Jane Mitchell,” Jim confesses, smiling at the silly memory.

 

Oswald laughs and Jim can feel the reverberations in his chest. “I always knew you were a heartthrob. How old were you, twelve?”

 

“Eleven.”

 

“Wow,” Oswald says, laughing even harder. “Honestly, the only time I remember using a sleeping bag was when some relatives visited us, and of course I had to sleep on the floor and listen to Uncle Hans’ awful snoring symphony. Much less pleasant than your experience.”

 

“I bet,” Jim says, his breathy laughter making the hair at Oswald’s nape flutter. He closes his eye as he breathes in Oswald’s cologne, spicy and heady. “Though I’m no stranger to snoring relatives. The secret is to have earplugs.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Yes, so I hope you’re not a snorer since I don’t have any with me,” Jim teases, biting his lip as he pokes Oswald’s side with his index finger.

 

“Ah! Excuse me, I’ll have you know that I am not a snorer,” Oswald says with faux indignation. “However, if you disturb my sleep, I can just elbow you.”

 

Oswald playfully demonstrates his elbowing techniques, Jim laughing as he fends off each attempt. However, what he isn’t ready for is Oswald’s wiggling, right across Jim’s crotch.

 

Every muscle in Jim goes rigid. He freezes. Shoulders tight with tension, hitched upward around his neck. The silk material of Oswald's expensive robe brushes against Jim's bare forearm, tickling his skin, causing the hair to stand as Oswald squirms.

  
  
"What are you doing?" Jim snaps. Frustrated and panicked at how quickly his body's reacting to the press of Oswald's body against him.

  
  
Oswald pauses at Jim's tone, hips stilling, thankfully, and tension drains from Jim's body.  There isn't much space between them in the sleeping bag, barely an inch that divides their bodies and there’s no chance of hiding an erection in such close quarters.

  
  
"Trying to get comfortable," Oswald whispers, voice suddenly low. "I'm sorry, Jim."

  
  
Guilt rushes through him and Jim feels like an asshole for raising his voice at the gangster. He blindly reaches forward, not realizing what a bad idea that is, because he can't see just where exactly he’s reaching, but luckily he lands on his target: Oswald's hand.

  
  
Jim grabs Oswald's hand at first, squeezing it, hoping that Oswald would recognize what he's trying to convey: an apology.

  
  
Yet, it feels incomplete. It's not enough.

  
  
Jim loosens his grip on Oswald's hand, his own hovering just above Oswald's wrist. He waits for a split second before Jim makes up his mind. His fingertip dips first, grazing Oswald's protruding wrist bone. He rests his palm against the top of Oswald's wrist before he travels higher, pushing the sleeve of Oswald's robe up as he goes, scrunching the silk, soft material around Oswald's elbow.

  
  
He rubs Oswald's forearm, slowly, trailing his hand up and back down, hoping he could soothe away any hurt feelings that may linger from Jim's curtness.

  
  
Jim hears Oswald draw in a sharp breath. Jim doesn't touch Oswald, not like this. He’s always careful not to let his hand stray, not to wrap Oswald in his arms, not to reach out and cup his face, to swipe his thumb over Oswald's lip.

  
  
He wants to touch him more, to bury his nose in Oswald's hair, brush his lips over the nape of Oswald's neck. Instead, he just murmurs, "Sorry..."

  
  
Jim hears Oswald releasing a shaky exhale, but doesn't say anything else. It's enough. Jim thinks. His hand rests at Oswald's elbow, cupping it. He means to lower Oswald's sleeve down, but instead, his fingers pinch the fine material of the robe and he's entranced.

  
  
He rolls the robe's fabric between his fingertips, distracted with how his fingers glide along the silk cloth. His thoughts from earlier come to mind and he thinks about the robe lying on Oswald's bare skin, the soft texture brushing against him.

  
  
"Jim..." Oswald's voice startles Jim. His tone’s cautious. Jim doesn't realize just how long he's been groping Oswald's sleeve. His ears are ringing, face burning, and suddenly Jim feels warm and overheated like he's seconds away from sweat beginning to form on his forehead. He blames the cramped space for this.

  
  
Jim drops the robe like it burnt him, yanking his arm back to his side.  "Sorry, I just- ," he whispers, hastily trying to explain.

  
  
"Your robe's nice," Jim blurts out, a second later grimaces at himself.

  
  
Oswald huffs a short breathy laugh, "Thank you, but you aren't just now noticing my attire, are you?"

  
  
"No, " Jim admits. It was the first thing he noticed when he arrived at the manor tonight. The way Oswald's long, pale hands twist, lean fingers at work, tightening the belt strings.

  
  
Oswald's quiet for a moment, Jim doesn't even have to see his face to know what the gangster's doing. He can picture it perfectly in the dark, the way it gets all scrunched up, eyebrows drawn inward when he's contemplating.

  
  
"Thank you," Oswald repeats, before adding, "My father gave it to me.

  
  
"The first evening I spent here. He unfolded it from his closet, put it on my shoulders, and told me it was mine now."

  
  
It's difficult to ignore the hurt in Oswald's voice, tinged with a rawness, still an unhealed wound, still bleeding after all this time.

  
  
Jim's chest spasms, heart clenching painfully at Oswald's anecdote. He remembers his father's ring being pressed into his hands after the accident. The only thing left of his father's, other than some car keys and his wallet. The frigid temperature of the police station, that seemed to seep through him, lingering among his bones, curling around his ribs, leaving an ache there that never seems to fade. He remembers his mother sobbing, head buried in her hands as an officer explained what had happened.

  
  
The officer couldn't explain how Jim came out unscathed. He always wondered if his mother blamed him for the accident.

  
  
He doesn't want to think about his father. He doesn't want Oswald to get lost in his thoughts either. Grief seems to cling to the both of them. Jim wants to hear Oswald laugh.

  
  
Jim always knew his feet remain icy cold, a complaint he frequently heard from past lovers. An idea pops into his head, a plan to distract Oswald. Jim moves his leg, placing his foot on the top of Oswald's ankle. He gets an immediate reaction.

  
  
Oswald bucks like he's been electrocuted. His head is flung back and suddenly, Jim's got a noseful of Oswald's hair. Jim inhales the scent of fresh lavender. Oswald must have taken a shower before Jim arrived. Jim quivers at the thought of Oswald dressing, sliding on his robe, the material sticking to his slick, damp skin from the shower.

  
  
"Jesus Christ!" Oswald screeches. "Why are your feet so cold?!"

  
  
Jim chuckles as he continues to move his foot up, planting the sole of his foot against Oswald's calf.

  
  
Oswald whines, but he's laughing. "Jim!"

  
  
He squirms away at the cold touch, but Jim quickly foils his escape, tossing an arm around Oswald's waist, holding him in place as he continues to slide his foot along Oswald's calf, their legs tangling together.

  
  
"James Gordon! I am-", Oswald cuts off, giggling. "-your mayor! I demand you to get your cold feet off me at once!"

  
  
Oswald tries to wiggle away, but Jim's foot must have hit a sensitive patch on Oswald's calf, because suddenly the gangster's back arched, his ass pressing right against Jim's crotch.

  
  
Jim releases Oswald's waist, clutching onto Oswald's pelvis, trying to cease the movements as much as possible. Jim knows his fingernails are digging in, he can feel Oswald's sharp hip bone. He wonders if there’ll be bruises in the shape of Jim's fingertips come morning and that thought doesn't help anything, causing his cock to twitch with interest.

  
  
"Jim?" Oswald's voice is quiet, almost worrisome.

  
  
"Stop moving."

 

“What? Why?”

 

Jim’s face becomes red, he’s absolutely mortified. There’s no way he’s going to say anything about his growing erection, but it seems like Oswald has already figured it out on his own.

 

“Oh,” is all Oswald says.

 

Jim takes his hand off Oswald’s hip slowly, closing his eyes and wishing that the ground would open and swallow him up. He can barely breathe. In fact, Jim doubts he’s going to be able to fall asleep. Oswald too, seems awfully quiet, his body tense and rigid, like a statue’s. He’s not sure he’s ever going to survive this embarrassment.

 

Jim starts reciting a silly poem he learned in school, trying to distract his thoughts from anything Oswald related, but this is not his lucky day. Oswald suddenly starts fidgeting, first imperceptibly, just hunching his shoulders, then ever more persistently, clearly pressing against Jim’s dick.

 

“Oswald!” Jim groans, and he tries to still Oswald, hoping that Oswald cannot feel how hard he’s getting.

 

“What’s the matter, Jim?” Oswald asks playfully, slightly turning his head.

 

Jim can’t see his face, but he’d bet everything that Oswald is smirking. “You know very well,” Jim growled, but he is not really stopping Oswald from wriggling against him.

 

“Anything I can _help_ with?” Oswald asks, punctuating ‘help’ with a powerful backwards thrust against Jim’s cock, making Jim moan and see stars.

 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jim says in a moment of clarity, his hand blindly feeling for the zipper of the sleeping bag. “I’m getting out of here.”

 

“No!” Oswald exclaims, gripping Jim’s hand with surprising agility, his fingers circling Jim’s wrist.

 

Jim is about the protest, but Oswald’s fingers are so soft and gentle, and then Oswald brings Jim’s hand to his mouth, pressing hot, desperate kisses onto his palm. Jim’s heart is pounding in his ears and he whimpers helplessly.

 

“Please, Jim,” Oswald whispers, kissing the tips of Jim’s fingers.

 

There’s a moment where Jim shuts his eyes, head thudding against the pillow as he considers his options, but he has absolutely no chance, especially when Oswald resumes rubbing himself against Jim, moaning as he no doubt can feel how hard Jim is.

 

“Jim, I need you.”

 

That’s all Jim needs to hear; his right hand settles on Oswald’s hip, squeezing it gently and he finally leans in and kisses Oswald’s neck.

 

“Oswald,” Jim murmurs, lips grazing the soft skin of the mayor’s nape, inhaling without shame the sweet lavender perfume of his shampoo. Jim thinks he’s going to go mad as Oswald rubs once more against his crotch, and Jim cannot contain his desire anymore. He thrusts against Oswald’s ass, fingers tightening on Oswald’s hip.

 

“I want you, Oswald,” Jim says, kissing behind Oswald’s ear. “I’ve wanted you for so long.”

 

Jim squeezes his eyes tightly shut as his hips jerk forward, unable to reign in his desires. He's been wanting this, wanting Oswald all day. There's been a pool of lust slowing trickling, oozing inside Jim's skull through a tiny small crack, filling his head with racy thoughts of what he wanted to do to Oswald.

  
  
This feels like a dream, better than a dream, as his cock swells and hardens, fully erect. He tries to control his thrusts, keeping them slow, his pace steady, but between the friction and Oswald's pert ass, Jim knows he doesn't stand a chance.

  
  
"Tell me," Oswald pants, already seemingly out of breath. Jim can't tell whether it's from arousal or exertion as Oswald increases his pace, rolling his hips back against Jim faster, arching his back as Jim's lips graze behind along the shell of his ear.

  
  
"Tell me," Oswald repeats, breath hitching as Jim's tongue traces a path down along Oswald's throat. "H-How long have you wanted me?"

  
  
_Since the beginning_ , Jim thinks. He doesn't say these thoughts out loud; instead, he reveals to the gangster, "I've been thinking about you all day."

  
  
"I couldn't stop thinking about you."

  
  
"Fuck, I can't-" Jim can hear whimpers and at first he thinks it's Oswald making them until he realizes the noises were coming from himself. Desperation bleeds through, making his voice catch, "I got to… I need to touch you."

  
  
He lets go of Oswald's hip, shushing the gangster when he whines at the loss of touch. Soon the whines transform into moans as Jim slips his fingers under Oswald's robe, finding nothing but miles of smooth skin at his fingertips.

  
  
Oswald loudly gasps as soon as Jim's hand makes contact with his bare skin. Jim sighs, he's been craving this all day, wanting to slip his hands under Oswald's robe and touch him. His fingers skirt along, feeling the ridges of Oswald's ribs, before latching onto one of Oswald's nipples.

  
  
His reaction is instantaneous, jerking as Jim rolls his nipple between his thumb and forefinger, making sweet noises as Jim gently pinches and pulls at it.

  
  
Oswald's head lolls back right into the juncture of Jim's throat and shoulder, his arm snakes upward, hand clamping down on Jim's wrist, squeezing, causing Jim to chuckle at his strong response. He has to wonder what sounds Oswald will make when he gets his hand around his cock. Jim doesn't wait, desperate to know.

  
  
Oswald must have realized what direction his hand is going, stomach muscles fluttering as Jim's hand ghosts across, hips giving an small, eager buck as Jim's fingertips reach Oswald's boxers.

  
  
He sneaks his fingertips under the elastic band, stopping himself from going any further with much difficulty.

  
  
The wait's worth the noise of frustration Oswald's makes, and Oswald plays just as dirty, pressing and wiggling his ass against Jim, even more, to encourage his hand to drift lower.

  
  
For a second, Jim's mind goes absolutely blank, losing complete focus on his task. He gets carried away, grinding against Oswald's ass, short, aborted jerks of his hips. His cock's leaking, there's already a small patch of pre-come soaking through his boxers.

  
  
"J-Jim! James, _please_!" Oswald pleads, breaks through and Jim can't wait any longer.  He's quick, pushing Oswald's robe up, the material pooling around Oswald's waist before yanking Oswald's boxers halfway down to his thighs.

 

Jim can’t help himself as he grasps Oswald’s ass, squeezing it, reveling in the softness, and his cock twitches, reminding him of the tight confinement of his boxers and pants. Oswald whines at the sound of the zipper being lowered and Jim quickly pulls down his own boxers, cock already pressing against Oswald’s ass. When he slides between Oswald’s cheeks, both of them moan and Jim curses, the sensations almost overwhelming.

 

At first Jim is going slowly, hand on Oswald’s arm as he rotates his hips as much as he can in the small space, teasing and driving to madness both of them. Jim presses a reassuring kiss onto Oswald’s shoulder from where his robe has slid off again and Jim takes Oswald’s cock in his hand, collecting the pre-come from the tip and spreading it along the length.

 

He’s never done this before, but Jim enjoys the feeling, even though it’s different from when he’s touching himself. Oswald is thicker than him and for a moment, Jim imagines what it would be like to take Oswald into his mouth, to suck him until Oswald would scream Jim’s name and come in his mouth. The thought electrifies Jim, makes him resume his thrusts, adjusting them to the agonizingly slow rhythm of his stroking.

 

“Oh, Jim,” Oswald voices his pleasure, gripping Jim’s forearm. “Please, faster, I need it.”

 

Even though there’s barely any space to move, Jim tries to get even closer to Oswald. He wants to feel every tremor in Oswald’s body, wants to hear every gasp and moan and wants to taste every inch of delicious skin he can reach. It’s getting hot in the sleeping bag, a drop of sweat trickling down the side of Jim’s head, but he doesn’t care to wipe it away. Oswald is rocking back against Jim as he speeds up his thrusts, and Jim leans forward as much as he can, whispering into his ear.

 

“You feel so good, Oswald. So amazing.”

 

Oswald sinks his nails into Jim’s forearm; he doesn’t seem to know which way to push his body; he’s viciously rubbing against Jim’s cock, but also trying to thrust into his fist.

 

Oswald's nails scratch, dragging down Jim's forearm, but Jim is too distracted by the pretty noises Oswald makes to pay much attention at the flare of pain Oswald's nails brings. His hand slips lower, tightly covering Jim's own hand.

  
  
The touch startles Jim and he almost comes right then and there at the mere thought of how they must look. Sweat clinging to their bodies as their hands work together, jacking the younger man off. Oswald squeezes his hand.

  
  
"Please..." Oswald breathy pleads fill the corners of the sleeping bag, ringing in Jim's ears and he knows he'll remember the way Oswald sounds for eternity, knows that they'll haunt him and he won't be able to forget the soft moans, the way his voice catches when he's at his peak.

  
  
Jim understands the unspoken request and tightens his grip around Oswald's cock, and he’s instantly rewarded with Oswald shouting his name.

  
  
"Jim!"

  
  
He likes the way his name falls from Oswald's tongue. His moans are a beautiful melody that will be stuck on repeat, circling around in Jim's brain. Jim could picture Oswald's face clearly, relying on his imagination since he couldn't properly see the gangster. Just the way his head was tilted upward, his mouth fell open. He could picture Oswald's eyes rolling back in his head, too overwhelmed with the sensations as Jim speeds up his hand, his own cock leaking, helping him slide along the cleft of Oswald's ass.

  
  
"Oh, fuck..." Oswald croons and he's writhing, hips jerking forward, fucking into the warm heat of Jim's fist.  "Just like that… Just like that."

 

Jim bites his lower lip; his chest is suddenly not big enough for the boom of feelings and warmth inside of him. This is all he’s wanted, to make Oswald happy. When he came over to the mansion, he didn’t even dare to imagine that their relationship would take such a turn. But then after they reconciled, it was like their suppressed feelings and undeniable attraction couldn’t be held back. It washes over Jim so intensely that he has to bite into Oswald’s pale, freckled shoulder, making the man yelp.

 

“Jim, oh god, I can’t anymore. _Please_.”

 

Although Jim feels the same way, as if he’s going to fall into delirium soon, he cannot stop himself from teasing Oswald, slowing down his hand.

 

“What did you say?” Jim asks slyly, leaning forward as his thumb swipes over the tip of Oswald’s cock, eliciting loud moans.

 

“You’re not playing fair, Jim,” Oswald groans, tightening his hold on the detective’s hand.

 

“I have to keep you on your toes,” Jim chuckles, and presses an affectionate kiss on Oswald’s nape. “But I can’t resist anymore. Not with the sounds you’re making.”

 

“Jim!”

 

“That’s it, Oswald,” Jim goads him, his thrusts and strokes speeding up, erratic.

 

Neither man is able to form coherent words anymore, they are moving in synchron, Jim thrusting between Oswald’s cheeks in the same rhythm as he’s jerking Oswald. He’s not sure if the noise is only in his head, from the pleasure that is about to explode in his body, or if the storm has reached its peak. Jim tightens his hold on Oswald’s cock as he feels his orgasm ready to burst and Oswald must be on the brink as well, as he lets out a keening sound, holding onto Jim’s hand tightly.

 

Jim is not sure whether there really is a thunderclap or if it is him shouting and trembling as his orgasm suddenly travels through his body, Oswald shuddering and arching against him, his lovely lips moaning Jim’s name over and over. Jim muffles his sounds by pressing his lips against Oswald’s shoulder, still thrusting, his cock sliding easily now as his come trickles between Oswald’s cheeks.

  
  
His hands slick, fingers smeared with Oswald's come, as he continues to stroke Oswald's dick, wanting to draw out his orgasm. Each one has the gangster twitching and soft moans escaping his lips. Loose and slow tugs at Oswald's softening cock, his thumb caressing just underneath the head with every stroke.

  
  
"Jim!" Oswald hisses, swatting at Jim's hand on his dick, overstimulated. Jim chuckles, but he releases his hold, wiping Oswald’s backside with his underwear and then his hands on his own underwear.

  
  
He continues pressing small kisses against Oswald's bare shoulder. Jim follows along Oswald's neck, tasting the salt of his sweat-coated skin, his mouth stops right below Oswald's hairline, and he gently blows against the damp, dark hair. Oswald shivers.

  
  
Even though his own cock is spent, he continues to rut against Oswald's ass, hips rolling forward of their own volition. Electricity crackles, his mind's nothing but static, sparking up like lightning against a night sky.

  
  
Oswald doesn't appear to mind, in fact, Jim hears a soft sigh from him before Oswald's pushing his ass against him, encouraging the slow thrusts.

  
  
Finally, Jim's hips stutter and still, senses too overwhelmed to continue. His mouth latches onto the side of Oswald’s throat, sucking and teasing the skin with his teeth. Jim's hand ghosts over the curve of Oswald's hip, fingertips trailing upward, palm flat against the gangster's chest, feeling the heartbeat underneath.

  
  
"Jim..." Oswald starts, cut off by a moan erupting from him, and he reaches up, fingers slipping through Jim's as Jim continues nipping at his skin before tracing over the mark with his tongue.

  
  
"If you leave a hickey..." Oswald warns, his voice drifts, leaving an unspoken threat left to Jim's imagination.

  
  
"Or what? Are you going to punish me? Think I'd like to see that."

  
  
Oswald groans, slapping at Jim's thigh, a resounding loud smack from his hand.  "You're absolutely incorrigible."

  
  
Jim laughs. "Don't worry, Mr. Mayor. I'm sure you can wear one of those-" His mind goes blank. The word Jim's searching for seemingly gone from his dictionary. Jim blames his post-orgasm bliss for the memory lapse.

  
  
"Cravat?" Oswald offers.

  
  
"Yeah, that." Jim nods, fingertips tracing over Oswald's hip bone, as he drags his nose along Oswald's neck, inhaling deep. Sharp scents of sex and sweat from their bodies linger in the air, mingling with the lavender fragrance of Oswald's hair.

  
  
Kissing Oswald's skin suddenly isn't enough, he needs to see him, to kiss him, to lick his way inside the gangster's mouth and taste him.

  
  
Jim's lips stop directly under Oswald's ear, planting a small kiss right where the skin dips behind his earlobe, before murmuring, "Turn around for me, baby. I want to kiss you."

  
  
Oswald ducks his head at the term of endearment, ears tinged pink, and his reaction only fuels Jim's need to kiss him. The corners of his lips twitch as he watches Oswald turn to face him. It's a struggle, given the limited space the sleeping bag provides, but after a couple minutes, with many interruptions of soft giggling from both of them at the many unsuccessful attempts, Oswald finally gets himself twisted, facing Jim's direction.

  
  
The lanterns cast a glow, illuminating Oswald's rosy flushed skin and Jim's unable to tear his eyes away. His breath catches, Oswald is a sight to behold. Curly strands of ebony hair stick to his forehead, clinging to his sweat-covered skin. His gaze unwavering and warm, soft. Vulnerability reveals itself with a bashful smile.

  
  
Jim reaches up, fingertips tracing the silhouette of Oswald's jaw, before cupping his face and leaning forward. The kiss starts chaste, a quick press of lips, swiftly growing more passionate as Jim swallows Oswald's quiet moans. Jim’s fingers are stroking Oswald’s hips and even though he doesn’t want to let go, he feels like he needs to say something.

 

“You know, I’m glad about the storm,” Jim confesses quietly against Oswald’s lips, smiling when Oswald squeezes his arm.

 

“Me too. I was afraid I lost you,” Oswald says, not daring to look into Jim’s eyes.

 

Jim cannot stand Oswald’s subdued tone, his index finger lightly touches under Oswald’s chin, coaxing him to look at Jim. “Never. We’re bound to each other, remember?”

 

Oswald stares with wide eyes at Jim and they both lean in, sharing tender kiss after kiss while the storm is going berserk outside. Jim wouldn’t mind spending the whole night like this, getting to know every inch of Oswald’s body, but he can feel his eyelids growing heavy. Oswald, too, looks like he’s about to fall asleep any second, kissing Jim’s cheek with closed eyes.

 

“Maybe we should try to get some sleep,” Jim murmurs, catching Oswald’s lips in a sweet kiss.

 

“Mmh, but I don’t want to stop. You’re so soft,” Oswald whispers and Jim has to laugh.

 

Oswald is clearly fighting sleep, but Jim understand the need to hold each other and never let go. Jim brings Oswald closer, tucking him under his chin and kissing the top of his head. “We’ll have time for everything. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

With a content sigh, Oswald melts in Jim’s embrace, kissing the base of Jim’s throat. Jim is so choked with emotion that he’s not sure he could utter a single word, so his hand sneaks under Oswald’s robe, rubbing along his spine.

 

Now that the dark cloud of worry that has been weighing on the two men dispersed, they lie in each other’s arms. Jim leans down to peck Oswald’s lips, wishing him good night. Oswald snuggles closer, placing his head on Jim’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. Suddenly, it feels like the whole world is on the good track, that everything is right again.

 

Even though the storm is raving with fury, pelting the house with droplets without any intention of stopping, Jim and Oswald are breathing softly, fingertips slowing in their gentle caressing. Sleep steals inside the basement and kisses them, both men falling asleep with a smile curling their lips.


End file.
